Feb 14
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Yes, I live in a gothic fever dream. No, I will not redecorate.
Nothing says ‘trust me’ like a bat smiling like it knows where you hid the bodies. - G. Mortelle 🧛♀️
Chapter Two
Signed, Sealed, Screwed
There are few things in this world that strike fear into the heart of a vampire. Sunlight. Holy water. The phrase “I’m not mad, just disappointed.”
And paperwork.
Gigi had faced many horrors over the centuries – plagues, pitchforks, and one unfortunate entanglement with a bard who wrote love sonnets in iambic tetrameter¹, but nothing filled her with such cold, undead dread as the scroll now unfurling itself across her kitchen table.
It did so with the sort of self-important rustling usually reserved for legal documents and angry hedgehogs.
“Clause sixteen,” Frip said, adjusting a pair of pince-nez that had appeared from somewhere suspicious. “In the event of magical custodianship, the party of the First Fang—”
“That’s not a real term,” Gigi muttered.
“-shall assume all responsibility for the feeding, grooming, and general emotional support of the familiar entity,” Frip continued, ignoring her. “The familiar may not be returned, swapped, or incinerated, even in cases of persistent sass.”
“I haven’t even signed anything yet!”
“Your verbal acknowledgement,” Frip said, “counts as a binding oath under the Council’s Loose Interpretation of Consent Act².”
Gigi glared at him. Fergus, who had taken up position on Gigi’s coat folded up on the table, began licking his shoulder with theatrical disinterest.
“And if I don’t comply?” she asked darkly.
Frip brightened. “Ooh, then the Baron invokes a Clause Seventeen-B.”
“What’s that?”
“Unscheduled Surprise Visit.”
There was a beat of absolute silence, broken only by the faint sound of a candle flickering nervously on the mantelpiece.
Gigi sat back, defeated. “Fine. But if he starts peeking into my sock drawer, I’m feeding him to the compost heap.”
⸻
Later that evening, having suffered through forty-seven pages of magical bureaucracy, one emotional breakdown, and two biscuits (one stale, one suspiciously warm), Gigi trudged back into the sitting room.
Fergus was asleep in a sunbeam that shouldn’t have existed at this hour, looking smug.
The room was dimly lit by candles, none of which Gigi had actually lit herself³ and the smell of something burnt and vaguely citrus clung to the air like a guilty secret.
“I’m going to bed,” she declared to no one in particular.
“You do that,” murmured Fergus, without opening his eyes.
“I’m not talking to you.”
“Then stop making statements out loud. It’s very confusing for the room.”
Gigi ignored him and stomped upstairs. The stairs groaned, the banister twitched, and a framed portrait of her great-aunt Morrible rotated 180 degrees just to be judgmental.
⸻
Her bedroom was a gothic mess of black velvet, clutter, and ambitious wallpaper. A full moon hung outside the window like a passive-aggressive eye test, and something hooted gently in the garden. It might’ve been an owl. It might’ve been Gregory⁴.
Gigi flopped onto the bed, groaned into a pillow, and briefly considered throwing herself into the void – or at least the laundry basket.
There was a soft scritch-scritch sound at the door.
She sat up.
More scritching. Followed by a polite thud.
“Oh, what now—”
A note slid under the door.
She picked it up.
“Basement carpet moving again. Smells like sulphur. Might be cursed. Tea’s gone missing. – Gregory.”
⸻
Gigi found Gregory standing barefoot in the hallway, wearing a patchwork bathrobe and holding a candle like a Regency ghost with anxiety.
“It’s not my fault,” he said immediately.
“You start every sentence with that.”
“Well, this time it’s true.”
“Gregory,” she said wearily, “did you or did you not summon a carpet demon again?”
Gregory looked offended. “Absolutely not! I simply re-enchanted the vacuum with a minor summoning rune to improve suction efficiency and possibly commune with the spirit of household dust.”
There was a pause. A creaking sound from below. Something hissed.
“And what, pray tell, did it say?” Gigi asked.
Gregory looked down at his feet. “Mostly screams.”
⸻
They reached the basement at half past midnight, which was the traditional hour for poor decisions and carpet-based hauntings. Gigi flicked on the light, which flickered twice, buzzed in protest, and then gave up entirely.
Gregory held up his candle. It was not particularly helpful.
The carpet in question, a once-innocent rectangle of floral beige, was currently writhing like a possessed tea towel and emitting a low growl.
“You see?” Gregory whispered. “It’s got tentacles.”
“Those are tassels.”
“Tassels don’t move of their own accord, Gigi!”
There was a sudden ripple along the edge of the rug. Something gurgled.
Gigi sighed. “Fine. I’ll exorcise it.”
“Do you need anything?”
“A circle of salt, a cleansing chant, and ideally a stiff drink.”
Gregory nodded solemnly. “I’ll get the whiskey.”
⸻
It took twenty minutes, a Latin phrase that definitely wasn’t Latin⁵, and a spatula soaked in lemon balm, but eventually the rug stopped snarling and collapsed into a defeated heap.
“There,” Gigi said, hands on hips. “De-demoned. Again.”
Gregory sniffled and offered her a cup of tea. “I think I may be allergic to banishment rituals. Or possibly lemon balm.”
“More likely allergic to responsibility.”
Gregory nodded thoughtfully. “Could be both.”
Upstairs, Fergus was watching the drama through the banister with the bored expression of a noble watching peasants argue about turnips.
He stretched luxuriously. “Let me know if anything actually dangerous happens.”
Then he rolled over and went back to sleep.
⸻
Footnotes:
¹ He once rhymed “immortal” with “snortle.” Gigi still has the scar.
² Passed in 1734 following the infamous “Unwitting Pact Incident,” in which an apprentice warlock accidentally married a goose and received joint custody of six eggs.
³ The candles were self-lighting and possibly sentient. They also voted on what time dinner should be.
⁴ Gregory the attic goblin was an accidental summoning, a devoted tea enthusiast, and a walking Health & Safety violation.
⁵ Gigi had once memorised an entire incantation from a cursed cereal box. It sounded impressive when shouted with conviction.
Gregory says they change colour with the acidity of the earth. I say they’re simply moody. We respect that in this household.
There is a creature in my garden that moves with the speed of an unpaid bill. The 3 foot tall ‘spider’ and I share an understanding: I do not scream, she does not sprint directly at my face.
If you ever feel useless, remember I once alphabetised my enemies.